


Anthurium

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Ori, First Time, Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the traditional Dwarven way, Ori is given her deflowering ceremony: offered a suitor by her family and taken with all her loved ones as witnesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anthurium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MocaJava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MocaJava/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “When a female Dwarf comes of age she is deflowered by a male chosen by her family. The act is performed in front of family and other witnesses and it is considered a very sacred event” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25509122#t25509122).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She’s half in a dream when she hears them, and at first she only catches a snippet of the conversation, but then the word ‘deflower’ peaks through, and Ori’s suddenly wide awake.

She doesn’t show it. She forces herself not to roll around and interrupt; it’ll just hush them, and she wants to hear this. She knows instantly what they’re speaking of, and they continue on as normal, obviously thinking her still asleep. Dori is tucked into the sleeping bag just behind her, Nori on his other side. Ori’s facing Dwalin’s back—as she so often is—but fortunately, her brothers are being quiet enough that they probably won’t wake the others. 

“It’s tradition,” Nori’s whispering, as though they don’t all know that. “It’d be cruel to deprive her of it.” It would be, but she wouldn’t have blamed them. As much as Ori’s glad she came on this quest, proud to be in Thorin’s ranks, it was a big concern, missing her chance at the deflowering ceremony. She naturally assumed she would, out on the road and away from their home as they are. She was disappointed over it, but as usual, convention isn’t stopping Nori. “We’ve still got a good crop of dwarves. We can go through with it.”

“This is no place for such things,” Dori replies, though his voice is hesitant, soft. “Ori deserves a proper bed. Certainly more than to have her first time on the dirt in the middle of nowhere.”

“Better dirt than no ceremony,” Nori protests. Ori completely agrees, but it would be improper to say so; she shouldn’t even be spying on this. The ceremony is for her family to plan. She knows that Dori can be over protective, but at least Nori’s persistent.

Dori makes a few noises of consideration, and she can hear him shifting around in his sleeping bag. She can only hope that he hasn’t looked back at her, and if he does, that she’s still and loose enough for him to think her still asleep. She has to resist the urge to peak over her shoulder and instead concentrates on Dwalin’s back, as she so often does. It’s dark in their rocky little clearing, but the starlight still silhouettes the outline of his head, the patterned tattoos just barely distinguishable. His mass of thick, dark hair flares out over his broad shoulders, and Ori can smell the sharp musk of him, unwashed as they all are. But then she has to turn her concentration away, because all that’s too alluring, and she doesn’t want to give herself away with a shiver.

“Besides,” Nori urges, “think of the opportunity we have here. We can choose _Thorin Oakenshield_. Imagine how well that’ll serve her, and us, in the future, if he likes her.”

“Of course he’d like her,” Dori scoffs, while Ori’s eyes widen, wondering what it would be like to have Thorin. She’d never even considered it a possibility, a king as he is. Even if he weren’t a king, surely he’d be out of her league, though she appreciates Dori’s confidence in her. “But I thought we’d agreed on Bofur before?”

“That was when we were back in the Blue Mountains and he’d asked, but now we have all these new options, and Thorin’s clearly the best choice. He’ll be _king_ , Dori. Even if we never get the gold, he’ll have that title, and his cousin’s Dáin Ironfoot.”

Dori seems to hesitate again. Bofur might be a better choice than Thorin, Ori thinks; he seems very cheery and would probably enjoy it no matter what: it would be less pressure on her. “I know all that. But Thorin might be a little too... hard... for her.”

“You want a man to be hard when he boinks you,” Nori says matter-of-factly, and Ori doesn’t have to look to know that Dori’s probably scowling. 

“You know what I mean. He’s very serious and can be aloof. Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s an amazing leader, we all know that, but as a first partner? Perhaps Balin would be a better choice. He’s gentle. He would make sure to treat her right.”

“He’s too old,” Nori dismisses. Ori doesn’t think she’d mind; Balin is very sweet, and she’s always liked his long, fluffy beard, but Nori isn’t having it. 

“That’s a good thing. He’ll know what he’s doing.”

“What about one of the princes? They’re cute.”

“They’re also not old enough for the ceremony themselves.”

“...Oh, right.”

Ori’s partially relieved for that; like Thorin, they seem a bit out of her league. Both Fíli and Kíli are ridiculously handsome, and of course she would still take them if they were chosen, but she thinks she would prefer someone older, who knew what they were doing and would think her... special. 

“Bombur,” Dori suggests. “He treats his wife well.”

“Which means that Ori would have no chance with him if she wanted to pursue it,” Nori points out. “I know his wife, and she doesn’t like to share.”

Bombur wouldn’t be bad, either. 

But the more Ori thinks about it, and the more they run over the company, she knows exactly who she’d like. 

She wouldn’t say it aloud, but she knows. It doesn’t really matter. With this group, she knows she’ll accept whoever’s chosen for her, and she’s looking forward to her ceremony—especially hoping it happens—but she knows who she’ll daydream in that role. Even if they might still be too good for her, too strong and highborn and handsome. 

“Dwalin,” Nori says. “The next closest to Thorin, and therefore a dwarf of good standing who’ll have money when we reclaim Erebor.”

“We’ll have money too,” Dori cuts in just as fast. “And it’s not a transaction. We have to pick someone Ori will want.”

Ori fidgets in her sleeping bag. She _does_ want Dwalin. She’s wanted him ever since she first met him, all the way back at the start of this long journey. But she didn’t think she’d get the ceremony, and didn’t think she’d have a chance without it. She still fantasized about him, at first just here and there, but then more frequently as he stood out to her, protecting her in fights and seeking her out in the turmoil of danger. He even brought her food when she was sick from her period in Rivendell, and he always looks at her kindly, even though he can be gruff with the others. 

But Dori says, “He’ll be too big and too rough.” Ori frowns. One of the things that she likes about Dwalin is his size; she wouldn’t at all mind having his large body blanketing hers. 

Nori says, “Nothing wrong with a big cock.” Because of course, that’s what he always thinks about. 

Dori just says, “We’ll have to think about it.”

And then they’re quiet for a long time, while Ori squirms in place and tries not to think about her ceremony too much. Every time she does, she wants to touch herself, even though she knows her fingers have never been enough. She doesn’t want to reawaken her brothers, or worse, have Dwalin roll over to see her blushing and writhing, daydreaming him inside her. 

But she thinks of him all night, and when sleep does come, she has only heated dreams.

* * *

In the morning, Dori and Nori come to her. She’s just about to mount her pony, her pack all bundled up again and nestled securely on its back. They linger behind while the others cluster ahead around Gandalf and Thorin, little Bilbo in between and trying to avoid getting off his feet. Quiet even through the morning chatter all around them, Dori asks, “Do you still want to go through with your deflowering ceremony, Ori? We understand it’s not ideal conditions.”

Feeling her cheeks flush, Ori says, “Yes.” There’s no hesitation. As persnickety as Dori is, and as much as she does enjoy a warm bed, the outdoors aspect doesn’t bother her so much. Neither does the limited choices, though again, she makes an effort not to look at any of them. Nori beams at her proudly, and Dori nods his acceptance. 

“We’ll tell Thorin it’ll happen tonight,” Nori says, and before Ori can say a word, he’s turned to leave. Dori pats her shoulder and follows, the two of them marching off to where their king is ushering Bilbo onto Minty. There’s always the possibility that they simply meant they’ll tell Thorin to stop the company early for the night, because he is their leader, and he should be appraised of upcoming rituals.

But they also might’ve meant that they chose _Thorin_ to take her. Once she’s up on her pony’s back, she can’t help but eye him across the distance. He’s especially handsome in the cool morning breeze, the wind playing with his long hair and the sun lighting up his skin. She has so much respect for him already, not just from stories but from _knowing_ him, and she’s sure, for all his bitterness and royalty, that he would be good to her for her first time. 

But then her gaze drops left of him, where Dwalin is riding up to his side, ever loyal. With his sleeves pulled up around his elbows, his taut muscles strain to rein in his animal, his sharp features focused on his king. Watching him inevitably makes her feel hot below her scarf. She can always pursue him after her ceremony, of course, but she would’ve liked him to be her chosen mate. It would save her the trouble of having to ask herself and risk rejection. It would save her from awkward courting attempts that she isn’t fit for, especially out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing to cook and nowhere to go. And it would save her having to feel dreadfully inadequate, flirting with a warrior of exponentially better skill and cousin to a king. 

And it would be nice if Dori and Nori liked him, too.

Whenever they look back at her, she averts her gaze, but otherwise, she watches Dwalin for much of the journey, the scenery never more lovely than the alluring men around her.

* * *

They set camp earlier than usual, which causes many confused looks. Bilbo is the first to ask, but Gandalf only ushers him away. The two of them take their ponies to go ‘scouting,’ which Bilbo doesn’t at all seem to understand, but Gandalf assures him with a chuckle, “It’s for the best.” As they gallop off around a particularly large boulder, Ori wonders what it would’ve been like to have Bilbo chosen. Probably very unpleasant. As much as Ori likes the little fellow, hobbits seem very strange and stifled in their customs, and when she thinks about it, it’s probably best that he isn’t included in the witnesses.

This is a dwarf tradition and a very sacred event, and when Thorin ushers them all to sit, they do. They take up in a circle on various logs and rocks, with the sun slipping past the trees but still enough light to bypass a fire. Their enclave in the brown-and-green scenery is a fairly private one, the air lukewarm and crisp. Once Thorin’s taken his seat, Dori and Nori rise, Dori announcing to the group, “This is a very special season. It’s unfortunate that we had to be on the road during it, but of course, this is a quest of utmost importance that we simply must attend. To tell the truth, my biggest concern on setting out was missing Ori’s deflowering ceremony, but apparently a bit of dirt won’t put her off.”

“She takes after me,” Nori chuckles, while delighted looks circle the group. Ori, sitting on the log that Dori rose off of, blushes hotly; all eyes are turning to her. The bright side of being in a small group is that she’s the only woman, as is typical for dwarves; her gender’s something of a rarity. But that just makes her all the more special, and she can see the intense interest coming onto several faces. For all her worry about not being worthy, her companions have little other option in the way of Dwarven women.

“So,” Dori continues, “Since we don’t have any good dwarf strongholds in sight, we’ll be conducting the ceremony here and now.” He has to pause, because Glóin suddenly claps, smiling wide, and the others all fall in. Even Bifur looks pleased at the prospect, and Ori finds herself bashfully rubbing her palms over her knees and looking at the ground. She’s chewing her bottom lip when the applause dies down enough for Dori to turn to her and say, “Ori, this season, you’ve reached the age of deflowering. Nori and I have had the privilege of seeing you grow into yourself, discover your interests and develop your skills, and you’ve even had the chance to prove your bravery and loyalty to your people. Now it’s time to sample the furthering of our race. You honour us with your presence, and if you ever choose to contribute more dwarves to this world, we shall be very lucky indeed.” He stops again, and the applause returns. Ori has to look away and at Nori, who’s grinning broadly, because Dori looks so emotional that his eyes are watery around the edges, and it makes her feel silly and just as moved. 

Nori does the honours of fetching a blanket from his pack, and he lays it down across the center of the circle, smoothing it out. The ground below looks hard, mostly dirt and a bit of trampled grass, but no worse than she’s grown used to on this trip. When he’s finished, and the applause is winding down again, he gestures her forward, and Ori climbs off the log. 

She sucks in a deep breath, her nerves more out of anticipation than fear, and she walks to the edge of it. There, she stops to kick off her boots. Traditionally, dresses are worn, ones that bear significance or have been specially made for the occasion, but Ori doesn’t have the luxury of a grand wardrobe anymore. Instead, she unbuckles her belt and pushes her trousers down her legs. She’s been bare in front of them enough times to not be too embarrassed—they’ve all seen each other naked, having nowhere private to bathe, though most are polite enough not to stare—but there’s still a tiny flicker of worry that she won’t be _good_ enough. Her stout legs are pale between the smatterings of orange-brown hair, not particularly muscled nor pleasantly round. But that’s all they really see of her, anyway. Her long, knit sweater covers the tops of her thighs, her sleeves all the way down her arms. She doesn’t bother to take off her gloves or her scarf, because she likes feeling toasty, and tradition is that she wears whatever represents her best. 

Bare-bottomed but otherwise the same, Ori takes a seat on the middle of the blanket. Then she smoothes it out around her, lying carefully down. The ground’s as hard as she thought, but she can arrange her scarf somewhat behind her like a pillow. She bends her legs at the knees, spread a little, and smiles over at her brothers to indicate that she’s ready. 

In her peripherals, she can see Fíli and Kíli directly before her legs, leaning their heads together to try and see everything they can. Their wide eyes and delighted grins make her blush, but she tries to ignore them and focus. 

This is the part she’s most looking forward to, and she pointedly doesn’t eye any of the candidates, just looks at Dori while he announces, “For this great honour, Nori and I have chosen the candidate we feel is most worthy of and wanted by our sister. And that dwarf...” Dori pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, but likely more to forestall hurting nine sets of feelings.

Nori blurts, “Is Dwalin.”

Ori’s hands lift automatically to cover her mouth. They stifle a tiny squeak. Her head tilts back to eye Dwalin, sitting just behind Nori and next to Thorin at the head of the circle. The large dwarf, normally so serious and in control, looks completely bewildered, while those around him melt out of disappointment and into congratulations. Thorin pats his shoulder, grinning at him, and Dwalin shakes unstably with the movement, gaping first at Dori and Nori, then down at Ori, who turns redder than her hair. 

“Is this choice acceptable to you, Ori?” Dori asks in the traditional wording, as though Ori would’ve said no to any of the dwarves here. She likes and respects them all in their own ways, but Dwalin...

Ori takes a minute to mumble through her hands, “I accept Dwalin.” She more than accepts. She wants to say she’s overjoyed, but she holds herself back in an attempt at dignity, just in case Dwalin isn’t as interested as her. 

There is no official part of the ceremony for the male to refuse, probably because it’s such a great honour, and as far as Ori knows, none have ever rejected it. Very few even get the chance to be asked, though there’s still a respectful pause where Dwalin _could_ back out if he chose.

Intellectually, she isn’t surprised when he doesn’t, but she still feels relief at seeing him climb off his log. The bewilderment lingers on his face as he sheds his heavy cloak. He gives Dori and Nori a short bow: gratitude at being chosen. The official dialogue is over. 

Back home, there might’ve been more. Perhaps music, candles, perfumes or anything else Ori chose, but out here, they cut straight to the meat of the ceremony. Dwalin walks around to stand between her legs, so that Fíli and Kíli have to try and peer around him. For that first moment, he just stands there, towering over her, his great shadow spilling over her feet. He looks over her body with obvious interest, the surprise dying into concentration, then to _desire._ Even if it’s only at the chance to sink himself into a woman, Ori relishes in seeing that lust worn for _her_. She slowly moves her hands away from her face, even though she still feels like she’s blushing hot enough to drown out her freckles, and she holds out her arms. Dwalin lowers to his knees, leaning forward into her hands. 

And then he’s over her, one large hand on either side of her shoulders, his thighs between her spread legs, his beard spilling down to brush over hers. There’s a faint murmur behind them: the whispering of witnesses. Ori does her best to ignore them, because she wants to focus on _Dwalin_ : she wants to memorize and cherish every moment of this. He looks at her for a few seconds, his eyes searching hers. 

She arches up first, brushing her nose over his, and she can see the slight tremor run down his body. His teeth grit together as though he’s going to hiss, but he only kisses her chin and presses his forehead against hers, lightly guiding her back to the floor. She lies still again, prone and ready. He descends to his elbows, so that one hand can thread into her hair while it supports his weight, and the other dips between them. Distracted by the gentle tug against her scalp, Ori’s eyes flutter, ears picking up the clink of metal and the rustle of clothes. He’s opening his belt. She glances down, but there isn’t enough room between them to see much. She gets a brief glimpse of the dark head of his cock, peeking up through the foreskin as Dwalin’s fist runs down his shaft, and Ori mewls delightedly, arms locking around her shoulders. 

She knows what has to happen next. She has to be wet for him. They have no special oils with them, so when Dwalin’s fingers glide up her inner thigh, his skin is dry. She buries her face in the crook of his shoulder and inhales: the thick, overpowering stench of him fills her nostrils, and that helps, makes her body clench, wanting _more_. She lets her tongue leave her lips to trace a small, slick line up the side of his neck, and he makes a grunting noise that sounds halfway to a moan. He rubs just between her legs, not quite touching the valley that she wants him to, but the teasing helps drive her own need. She thinks of _Dwalin_ , holding and filling her—now so _close_ —and the sheer want makes her rub her hips up into him, her thighs shivering in his grasp. It doesn’t matter how big he is; she doesn’t think she’ll have any trouble growing wet for him. 

He helps her along anyway. Two fingers finally slip along the crease between crotch and thigh, running through coarse hair and the hidden skin below. He traces her entrance, his large fingers covering so much distance at once. Then he slips three fingers—he can’t fit anymore—just below her pussy, and he cups her, squeezing once—Ori gasps and squelches in his hand; she can feel her juices bubbling up. Dwalin’s forehead presses harder against her, and she thinks it as much his own tension as trying to pin her down. Somewhere near Ori’s head, she hears Dori’s voice interject, “Don’t hurt her—” but Nori quickly hushes him. Ori’s grateful. As much as she appreciates the protection, she doesn’t need it from Dwalin, and she has to stay intent on him. He brings her attention back by rubbing their noses again and massaging the back of her scalp, his hot breath searing over her chin. 

It doesn’t take long for Ori to start humping Dwalin’s hand. He continues to stroke her anyway, waiting for her body to prepare itself as much as it can, before he finally crooks his index finger in. Ori moans as it worms around between her lips, drawn back and forth, and Dwalin glides from top to bottom, pushing lightly, and Ori thinks it should probably feel strange, but instead it’s oddly _natural_. He knows just how to touch her, or at least, he’s being very careful, only a little bit more at a time, until he has a second finger with him. Then he’s scissoring her apart, and when Ori bucks too high, she can feel his shaft scrape along her crotch. He hisses and grunts, “ _Ori_ —” And Ori bites her lip to stop her moan; she’s always loved the way he says her name. There’s always so much reverence in it. Now it comes with a quickness and heat, mirrored by the movements of his fingers. 

Once he deems her open enough, he removes his hand to take his cock, and any complaints over losing that contact die on her tongue as soon as she feels his tip running down her entrance. He taps at her and slips back and forth a few times, like introducing their bodies, and it makes her squirm, makes her mewl, her channel dilating in anticipation. Then he presses right against her hole, and his eyes flicker to hers, waiting. 

She nods her head, and he pushes in. The first breach makes her gasp, her body contracting in shock, but he stops instantly, resting just that little bit inside. Ori takes a minute, breathing rapidly. She clings to his shoulders all the tighter, her fists digging into the back of his tunic. He holds himself steady, looking at her, before he tilts his head and brushes their mouths together. 

Ori melts into the kiss, lifting instantly for another and another, until he runs his tongue along her bottom lip and pushes his cock just that little bit deeper. Ori grunts, taking him; it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, and the way is slick and she’s looser than she thought she might be, but he is very _big_ , much larger than her fingers have ever been inside her, and he’s hot and hard and foreign. She keeps needing to adjust, but he keeps stopping, going so gradually and rocking slightly back afterwards, while his lips distract hers. It gets to a point where she doesn’t know if she can take anymore—she _wants_ him, she really does, but it _stings_ , and she slips her hand around to splay against his chest, signaling him to stop. 

Dwalin does so instantly, but the second he tries to pull out, she shakes her head and murmurs, “No.” So he stays where he is. Her body sucks at the odd intrusion, testing and learning to cope. She feels particularly wet and wonders if she’s bled—she knows some dwarves do that. But she doesn’t want to stop long enough to check. Dwalin’s hand skims around the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, and he gently pecks the tip of her nose. She makes a keening noise and arches into him; she’s so _glad_ he was chosen. 

“Take your time,” he murmurs, the tightness in his voice betraying him. She doesn’t quite have the wherewithal to nod, so she just kisses him again, sucking the tip of his tongue into her mouth to toy with. Losing herself in kisses, she starts to roll her own hips, turning him to different angles. 

Then she parts their lips and moans, “More, please.” She clings tighter, and he pushes deeper. She tries to relax, but she’s too high-strung on the rush of it. He takes her in one gentle thrust after another, until he stops, and she takes a moment to realize that he’s _all the way inside._

He groans, “You feel so _good_ ,” and his face burrows into the side of hers. She rubs against him, moaning and trying not to writhe too much. He growls in hushed words, just for her ears, “You’re so perfect, Ori. I’m honoured.”

 _Perfect_. She’s nothing of the sort. She wants to laugh, but instead only grinds her hips desperately against him. She betrays herself to whisper, “I hoped it would be you.”

He pulls back enough to see her smile, and then he kisses her, his hips slowly drawing away.

He doesn’t get far before he pushes back inside, still slow. When he’s fully sheathed, he grinds around, and the new angles make her gasp delightedly—it hurts just a tiny bit, but it also feels so _good_ , and she truly wants him, so much—her hips start to rock beyond her control. They shudder helplessly, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just works into a gentle, steady rhythm, filling her to the brim and slipping back out, his base grinding against her outer lips. He kisses her cheek and murmurs as he takes her, “I want to do right by you, Ori. Whatever you wish. You’re beautiful, and you fit so well in my arms...” He cuts off in a groan when Ori clenches around him, at first by accident and then on purpose, squeezing at him just to watch the pleasure twist over his handsome face. She savours his words and hopes for more, but he dies into fierce growls and hisses, one of his hands sturdy on her hip and the other by her face. There are too many clothes between them, but that’ll be for another time, if he’ll have her—and it sounds like he will—when the ceremony is over and the witness have gone. For now, it’s just this, her body learning to take his big cock and her mind and spirit latching onto his embrace. He licks over her lips to kiss her again, his mouth not quite matching the rhythm of his hips. 

She could go like this forever, she thinks, even though her mouth is getting dry and the ground is hard and her channel’s sore, and she’s slick with sweat below her clothes—she likes burning up, likes being crushed down, likes him stretching her open. Each thrust is a little better than the last, and the sharp pangs are gone, the dull throbbing now a backdrop to the pleasure, pulsing ever higher. Each time he kisses her, she trembles, her hips still wildly cantering. She smoothes her hands over his back, wanting to _feel_ him, but mostly just holds on. She gets dizzy, and it grows difficult to think, her world narrowing down to _Dwalin_ , heavy atop her, and her clouded head runs through other positions and hazy thoughts of the future—being home with Dwalin, sharing a meal over a common dinner table or taking a stroll around the mountain, lying in the same cot, cuddled close, and the adoration on his face tells her that it’s all a possibility—her whole world’s opened up—she’s grown into herself and is going to grow into love—

And then Dwalin kiss her _hard_ , shattering all those plans with the force of it, and he bursts inside her. She can feel the sudden rush of his orgasm, the splash of his seed. A second of drowning, and then she’s kissing him back, clutching desperately to him. Her body sucks up all of it. She clenches around him, not wanting to lose a single drop. She can only hope it’ll work, that it’ll stick inside her and grow, though she knows how rare it is, and Dwalin keeps dutifully fucking her, grinding it in and drawing her closer to hers, and feeling him twitch inside her is what sets her off. She comes right after, her scream disappearing into his mouth. 

It’s blissful. She’s never felt anything so good, so freeing, and for that moment, she’s weightless, almost separate from her body, existing in white-hot heat and pleasantries. It’s nothing short of amazing.

But then she’s finished, slowly coming down, and she can feel reality and weight and the stench of her own arousal trickling back in. She feels boneless and useless, but she’s already lying down and doesn’t have to move. Dwalin is the one that slumps over her, though still careful not to crush her. His hips slow to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out quite yet. 

She fidgets. It’s a little awkward, being stretched around him, now that all her energy’s passed and the mood has transitioned into the aftermath. Dwalin draws slowly out, which leaves her feeling wide open, dilating around just air. She’s sticky and wet but doesn’t bother to deal with it. 

Dwalin takes a deep breath, then pushes up on his arms, sitting between her spread legs like a victor at the end of the great battle. The circle of dwarves bursts into applause, which startles Ori—somehow, she’d quite forgotten about them. By now, the stars are out, and it’s dark enough for them to disappear into the background, though she can still pick out their individual voices when they clamour with their congratulations. With the dwarf population as small as it is, every chance at expansion is cause for celebration. 

But they’re also all her friends, and she finds herself smiling sheepishly, bolstered by the mood. Dwalin’s tossed a handkerchief up, and he wipes his spent cock off, tucking it back into his trousers and straightening out his coat, but he doesn’t leave yet. Before he has the chance, she lifts her arms again and mumbles, “Dwalin?”

He looks at her and her invitation. She elaborates, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“That and every night you choose,” Dwalin responds simply, bending down to scoop her up. He slips one arm between her knees and angles the other behind her back, easily turning her against his chest. When he lifts her into the air, she’s struck again by just how _strong_ he is, and it’s a very pleasant reminder. 

Having stood up right in front of them, Nori tells Dori with a grin, “We’re good.”

Thorin chuckles, “It was a good ceremony. Now, who’s going to fetch the hobbit and the wizard?” 

Anyone but Dwalin. As Ori clings to his shoulders, he bends to fetch her trousers in one hand. Then he carries her out of the circle, stepping over the logs, and off towards his sleeping bag, maybe for an encore.


End file.
